Escape of the Nerk Twins
by Doctor Lennon 007
Summary: After weeks of incessant touring, John and Paul decide to take a little vacation. They set off on what could be the road trip of a lifetime – but Brian's furious! And George and Ringo are determined not to be left out of having some fun. Buckle in, ladies and gentleman, because Scotland: here come the Beatles! Based on fictional film A Hard Day's Night.
1. Chapter I

**I just realized that I don't own the Beatles! I kept running around telling people about my revelation. For some reason, they snorted incredulously and asked me if I had amnesia.**

**Disclaimer II: This story is based on the fictional characters of John, Paul, George, and Ringo from their film ****_A Hard Day's Night_****, NOT the real people.**

**A/N: To my Beatles in a Beetle readers: welcome back! And to my new readers: welcome! Enjoy the ride :0)**

* * *

><p>A brisk wind whipped through the scraggly grasses of the Scottish highlands. Grey clouds hung moodily overhead, every now and then a lone beam of sunlight cascading down through a narrow gap. A grey strip of asphalt, barely wide enough to have two lanes, wended through the valleys and hills of the countryside.<p>

A grumbling noise disrupted the quiet whistling of the wind, gathering slowly in intensity. Abrasive black rubber ground down the road, the agitated wind grew more frenzied, a beam of sunlight was cut off from the heavens, and a white bus appeared on the horizon. It sped along the road and zipped past the scraggly grass, eager to get someplace less desolate.

Inside the bus, a young man pensively watched the scenery fly past. Apparently oblivious to the hubbub surrounding him, he pushed his thick-framed black glasses up his nose. He stared at the brown grass and far-off clumps of evergreens, his expression indecipherable.

Everyone else in the bus seemed to be talking at once. Another young man with a softer face, sitting next to the one with the glasses, said loudly, "Come on, Eppy! We just want a little break to stretch our legs!" He made extremely convincing doe eyes across the bus, twisting around in his seat to look at someone else.

"What d'you think, John?" he asked, turning back to his bespectacled companion.

"What?" said John Lennon absentmindedly, turning to look at his friend, Paul McCartney.

"D'you want to stop at the next gas station?" asked Paul impatiently.

"Yeah, course I do!" replied John.

"We don't have the time . . . ." Brian Epstein, their manager, attempted valiantly from the back. Everyone else groaned. "Fine, alright. You can have a quick break," he relented, conceding to his inevitable defeat. "But we must meet up back at the bus after ten minutes."

The Beatles cheered. "Hooray for Brian!" yelled Ringo, sitting across the aisle from Paul.

Mal got up rather unsteadily and stumbled to the front of the bus, swaying from side to side with the vehicle. Conversation started up again as he asked the driver to pull over.

Soon, the bus was pulling off the narrow strip of asphalt into a weed-crusted parking lot. Across the parking lot stood a small, battered yellow building. A sign in the window proclaimed that it was open from eight in the morning to six in the evening.

"Is everyone getting off?" asked Brian. There was a general reply in the affirmative.

"I'll meet you back here at 4:10," said Brian. "Don't be late!"

The second the bus ground to a stop, everyone tumbled out the door. Mal and Neil made a beeline for the telephone booth on the right corner of the gas station. Brian, George, and Ringo all headed inside the slightly dilapidated but still rather cheerful building, leaving John and Paul standing aimlessly outside the bus.

"What now?" asked John.

"I dunno," replied Paul. "Guess we'll just stroll around for a bit."

The pair wandered across the parking lot toward the left corner of the gas station. Paul shivered as the breeze tugged at his suit and mussed his mop top.

"Freezing, isn't it?" he commented.

"Yeah," replied John. "It's kind of nice, though."

As the duo passed the corner of the building, a shimmer of silvery blue caught Paul's eye. He turned to see a battered Ford Anglia languishing in the shadow of the gas station. John also looked over at the old car.

They exchanged a pointed glance before walking over to more closely inspect the car. Paul was sure John also saw the handwritten "For Sale" sign stuck to the inside of the dirt-speckled windscreen.

Paul turned to John.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" asked Paul.

"Doubt it," John replied, staring off at the hills in the distance.

"What're you thinking?"

"Platypuses would make very bad secretaries."

"Ooo-kay, definitely not thinking the same thing, then," said Paul, scratching the back of his neck.

John looked over at Paul. "What're_ you_ thinking?"

"That car probably isn't much money."

"Oh! Now I'm thinking what you're thinking. I think."

"We've got to hurry, then," directed Paul. "You go back to the bus and get our stuff. I'll buy the car."

They both leapt into action, John dashing back to the bus and Paul jogging into the gas station. The bassist was in such a hurry that he didn't even notice George and Ringo searching the shelves for snacks as he made a beeline for the counter.

"That your Ford Anglia outside?" Paul asked the woman behind the counter in a low voice. She was probably in her mid-sixties, with slate grey hair and twinkling eyes.

"Yes, that's right," she replied in a crisp Scottish accent.

"I'd like to buy it, if you don't mind," said Paul, glancing warily over his shoulder. He noticed George and Ringo now, but they were too busy looking at the snacks to see him.

The woman behind the counter smiled. "Ah, good to know the old girl's going to get some use again."

"How old is the car?" asked Paul, quickly adding, "Also, I need to be able to drive it right now."

"Oh, she's about ten years old now," said the woman, rolling her _r_s cleanly. "And still in perfect driving order."

Paul hurried the transaction along as quickly as he could. As he pocketed the car keys, he asked, "Where's the next gas station? I'd buy stuff here, but I have to run."

"Go to the right out of the parking lot, take a left at the next asphalt road, and go another mile or so," replied the woman, her eyes twinkling.

"Sorry, but could I go out your back door?" added Paul hastily.

The woman gave him a conspiratorial wink. "Certainly."

"Ta," said Paul, slipping out the back door and into the cold breeze. John was waiting there, sitting on the Anglia's trunk. Two brown suitcases and a black guitar case were scattered across the cracked asphalt and brown weeds around his feet.

"You ready?" asked John.

Paul raced over and unlocked the trunk. He picked up his suitcase and shoved it inside; John unceremoniously dumped the guitar and his suitcase in next to Paul's.

"Why didn't you bring my guitar?" complained Paul.

"Blimey, Paul, d'you expect me to be able to carry all that and not get noticed? It's a miracle I got past Neil and Mal with all this!"

Paul put his hands in the air. "Okay, okay."

John slammed the trunk shut. The thunk resounded across the desolate plain, carried along by a fresh gust of the frigid breeze.

"Can I drive?" he asked innocently.

"No!" yelped Paul. "You are not getting _near _this steering wheel, not after Bournemouth!"

John made one of his trademark "crip" faces at Paul, thrusting his tongue under his lower lip and crossing his eyes.

Paul laughed. "Let's get this show on the road!"

Mal was standing outside the phone booth, waiting for Neil to finish up calling the Glasgow hotel to make some last-minute changes to the Beatles' accommodation. He pulled up the collar of his coat against the biting wind and cupped a hand around his cigarette to protect it from the onslaught.

As he idly watched the parking lot, the roadie was surprised to see a beat-up Ford Anglia zoom out from behind the gas station and accelerate away down the road, into one of the rare patches of sunlight that had escaped the heavy clouds.

"You ready?" asked Neil, stepping out of the phone booth.

Mal turned away, almost reluctantly, from the disappearing, silvery-blue dot that had been the Ford Anglia. "Yeah."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Reviews keep me writing! The more reviews I get, the sooner I'm likely to post Chapter 2! See you then :0)**


	2. Chapter II

**If I owned the Beatles, I would have had them put subliminal messages in their songs to get the world to make me supreme dictator of everything! Unfortunately, I would have to be supreme dictator of everything to own the Beatles . . . .**

**A/N: Welcome back everybody! Thanks so much for reading! Special thanks to my reviewers: On WattPad, Macca40, InmylifeIloveLennon, MasterofFire, and cityofstarlight; on FanFiction, Macca's Little Teddy Bear, omgringo, and the Mysterious Guest. Grazie mille!**

* * *

><p>"That's a lot of crisps," pointed out Ringo as he and George ambled over to the counter, their arms laden with snacks. "You gonna share?"<p>

George snorted. "You kidding? I'm not sharing my crisps. Not with you, anyroad. And be careful with that packet of jelly babies!"

Ringo narrowly saved the jelly babies from tumbling to the floor. Looking up, he saw Paul slip out the back door, glancing over his shoulder on his way.

"'Ey, look at Paul," said Ringo, pointing at the door falling shut behind his bandmate. George glanced over at the exit.

"What's up with him?" asked the guitarist.

Ringo shrugged.

They quickly purchased their mounds of sweet and salty treats, dumping the snacks into paper bags before venturing out into the brisk Highland wind. Clutching the bags, they dashed across the parking lot with speeds honed by experience escaping fans. The pair collapsed into the bus a couple of minutes early.

At precisely 4:10, Brian Epstein leapt into the Beatles' tour bus. He did a quick head count.

_There are George and Ringo_, the manager thought, adding the two mop-topped heads to his mental tally. He didn't let his eyes linger on their game of cards; instead, he scanned the rest of the bus. _And there's Mal, in the back . . . ah, there's Neil, right down by the front. Hang on, where are John and Paul?_

"Has anybody seen John and Paul?" asked Brian. The rest of the passengers looked up from what they were doing.

"Yeah, just a few minutes ago," said George. "Paul bought something at the gas station, I think."

"They're probably just taking their time in the loo," added Neil confidently. "They'll be out in a few minutes."

Brian stared fretfully out the windows at the scraggly grass and the brown hills beyond. "I'd better go back and check, all the same."

"I'll go with you," offered George, getting up from his seat.

"Thank you, I'd like that," replied Brian. He disembarked from the bus; George soon followed, leaping over the dirty, black, rubber-coated steps to land on the cracked asphalt. The youngest Beatle shoved his hands into his pockets for warmth, hunching his shoulders against the wind. He followed Brian back into the gas station.

Brian strode briskly to the desk, behind which sat the building's owner. She looked up from her newspaper and pushed a pair of rectangular, wire-rimmed reading glasses down her nose to look at him.

"How may I help you?" she asked crisply.

"Have you seen two young men lately?" asked Brian.

"Two specific young men," added George. "He's not just looking for any pair of young men."

"I've seen a lot of young men since your bus pulled in," replied the owner.

"They look a bit like me, or so I've been told," said George. "It's the haircut."

"Well, there was the one who was with you," she said to George.

"No, that's Ringo," replied George. "They're not that short."

"Oh, do you mean that lovely young man who just bought my Ford Anglia?" asked the woman with what looked suspiciously like a smirk.

Brian paled.

"Paul bought a car from you?" asked George incredulously.

Brian recovered his ability to speak. "Thank you," he said dazedly before sweeping out of the shop. George followed confusedly in his wake.

Brian clambered back onto the bus with George close on his heels. Mal, Neil and Ringo looked up at them, looking slightly worried that Brian and George weren't dragging John and Paul behind them by the scruffs of their necks.

Brian stared at the company.

"Well?" asked Mal finally. "Where are they?"

Something inside Brian snapped. "They've GONE!" shrieked the manager. "They just decided that it was time for a holiday! In the middle of the tour, they up and buy a Ford Anglia, cruising off into the wilderness without even a map! What in God's name were they thinking?"

Brian reached up to tug at his hair. George ducked out of the way of his elbow, alarmed.

"And it's not like this was their decision!" ranted Brian. "I can't believe I thought those antics in Ipswich were terrible! That's nothing, _nothing_, compared to this! Thousands of fans have paid to see them tonight! And now those two irresponsible idiots have decided that they're better than all this planning, all this hard work, all that money!"

"You know, George and I are in the Beatles too," pointed out Ringo. "We can still do the concert."

George nodded. Everyone else ignored them.

"Those bloody fools!" moaned Brian. "How on earth are we going to find them in time for tonight?"

"We aren't," answered Mal darkly. "We'll have to cancel."

"Those self-absorbed twits!" yelled Brian. "I've had it with their antics!"

George tried to slip past Brian to his seat but was whacked by one of Brian's wildly gesticulating hands.

Brian ran out of air and paused to take a deep breath.

"Could you stop shouting and let me sit down, please?" requested George.

Brian sagged. George took advantage of the opportunity and slid past Brian to Ringo.

"Damn," swore Brian, collapsing into the nearest seat and burying his face in his hands. George and Ringo exchanged an awed _Brian swore! _look. A bird cawed outside the temporarily silent bus, and the small, yellow gas station continued to sit quietly in the middle of the brown valley.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Do you think you have talent? Do you want your name in the papers? Well, I can't put your name in the papers, but I can put your username in the author's notes at the beginning of Chapter III! All you have to do is post a review below!**


	3. Chapter III

**Unfortunately, none of the presents under the tree are large enough to hold one human being, let alone four. So we can safely assume that I don't own the Beatles.**

**A/N: Finally, chapter III! I buckled down and wrote it - are you proud? Thank you thank you thank you to my reviewers: on FanFiction, the Mysterious Guest, omgringo, and Macca's Little Teddy Bear; on WattPad, Macca40, InmylifeIloveLennon, and MasterofFire. Thangs four awl the helb wif schpelin. U guys r the bets!**

* * *

><p>In the parking lot of another gas station several miles away, John and Paul heaved four bags' worth of crisps, candy, and pretzels into the trunk of their Ford Anglia.<p>

"That it?" asked John, surveying the contents of the trunk. He and Paul looked over the blankets, cameras, comic books, bags of food, suitcases, and guitar that now filled up the back of the car.

"Yeah, reckon so," replied Paul. He slammed shut the trunk, revealing the brown and green hills that had been hidden behind the lid. "I'm gonna go call my dad and tell him I'm alright. You know, just in case the news says something ridiculous about all this."

John nodded. "Can you call Cyn?"

"Do it yourself, you lazy git!" replied Paul playfully.

John made a face. "She'll be alright."

Paul trudged across the parking lot to the telephone booth. John pulled a newly purchased road map of Scotland out of his pocket and spread it out on the Anglia's trunk lid, thankful that the wind had subsided somewhat.

Paul turned around and had one last look at his friend, hunched over the map, before pulling shut the telephone booth's door and picking up the phone. He slid a couple of coins into the slot and waited for the comforting _thunk_ they made as they hit the bottom.

He called a familiar number, the well-worn dial of the telephone spinning and clicking confidently.

Someone picked up after a few rings. "Hello?" asked the older man on the other end of the line.

"Hey, Dad," replied Paul. "It's me."

"Hello Paul!" said his father. "What're you calling about?"

"Listen, I'm really busy, I have to go soon," explained Paul quickly, "But whatever you hear, I'm fine. I'm having a blast! Probably most fun part of the tour."

Paul could practically hear his father frowning. "What do you mean? Is something wrong?"

Paul grinned. "No! It's great!" he enthused.

"Well, alright," replied his father hesitantly. "As long as you're enjoying it."

Paul looked up from the payphone and through the grimy glass of the telephone booth. He saw John beckoning him impatiently.

"I have to go," said Paul. "See you after the tour."

"Bye, Paul."

Paul heard the click of his father hanging up in the front parlour of 20 Forthlin Road. The Beatle put the phone back in its cradle and pushed open the telephone booth door. He jogged back across the parking lot to the Ford Anglia.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Can we talk about it in the car? It's bloody freezing out here," complained John.

Paul nodded. "Sounds good."

John crumpled up the map. He and Paul walked around their sides of the car and got in. Once they were seated, John spread out the map again, holding it up rather awkwardly against the inside of the windscreen.

"We're here, right?" asked John, pointing to a spot just north of Edinburgh.

Paul's eyebrows leapt together in confusion. "Er, no, we're in the Highlands, between Dundee and Glasgow. Somewhere around here, I think." He pointed to a completely different spot.

John scratched his head. "But that's Dundee, isn't it?" he asked, pointing to Edinburgh. "Anyroad, why've you got the map upside down still?"

Paul groaned. "You have to put on your glasses to read the map, John."

John grudgingly pulled his glasses out of his pocket and put them on. The map sprang into focus.

"Better?" asked Paul. John nodded slightly, bending closer to the map.

"Oh, so we're _here_," he said finally, pointing. "Where do we go, then?"

"Well, we have to get to Glasgow eventually," said Paul. "Otherwise Eppy's angry face'll be the last thing we see."

John laughed. "So we just curve up north like this," he suggested, tracing a possible path. "Up into the Highlands, then down here to Glasgow." He tapped the dot labelled "Glasgow."

"Perfect!" replied Paul. "So we'll still go to Glasgow; it'll just take us about a day and a half longer than it'll take the others."

John grinned. "Perfectly logical." He balled up the map into a scrunched mess of coloured paper and tossed it over his shoulder into the backseat of the car.

Paul shoved the key into the ignition, turned on the Anglia with a rumble, and shifted into drive.

"Scotland, here we come!" he shouted.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I cannot guarantee anything for you if you review, but you might be given a real live Ringo Starr for the holidays if you do! Or you might not. It really doesn't depend on your review, regardless. But you can still review below!**


	4. Chapter IV

**Sigh. Christmas came and went, yet I did not receive a Beatle. Oh well. I guess I'll just have to satisfy myself with writing fanfiction!**

**A/N: Thanks so much to all my reviewers! This chapter is a late Christmas present but early release (if that makes any sense) for you guys. On FanFiction: leah9712, Macca's Little Teddy Bear, omgringo, and the Mysterious Guest. On WattPad: Macca40 and MasterofFire.**

* * *

><p>"Please, can you just send out a couple of cars?" pled Brian desperately. He twisted the telephone cord back and forth between his fingers.<p>

"Our department has had enough work from you lot!" exclaimed the Dundee policeman on the other end of the line. "We will not go gallivanting off after a couple of young upstarts!"

Brian sighed fretfully. "You will regret this, you know." They both knew it was an empty threat. The policeman on the other end of the line hung up.

Brian took the phone away from his ear and stared at it for a second before hanging up. He stepped out of the phone booth and kicked it.

George and Ringo looked up from their card game inside the bus just in time to see this display of anger.

"Is Brian going mad?" a slightly worried Ringo asked George.

George shrugged. "Either way it's entertaining."

They idly watched as Mal and Neil raced out of the gas station and halfway across the parking lot, realized they'd forgotten something, and dashed back inside.

Meanwhile, Brian stormed back into the telephone booth and telephoned the Glasgow police.

"Hello? Yes, this is Brian Epstein, manager of the pop group the Beatles," said Brian. "Can you put me through to the detective inspector?"

He waited for the secretary to give the telephone to her employer.

"Hello, this is Detective Inspector MacGregor," said a voice on the other end of the line, at long last. "Is this Mr. Epstein?"

"This is he," replied Brian instantly.

"How may I help you?" asked DI MacGregor.

"Two members of my group have gone missing," replied Brian. "I need your help tracking them down."

"Missing?" asked DI MacGregor. "How long have they been gone?"

"About twenty minutes," replied Brian, glancing back down at his watch and feeling rather silly.

DI MacGregor guffawed. "How do you know they haven't just gone around the corner for a bite to eat?"

"There aren't any corners, we're in the middle of nowhere," replied Brian, gritting his teeth. "And we know they bought a dilapidated Ford Anglia and then _disappeared _to God-knows-where."

"You mean they ran away?" chuckled DI MacGregor. "I don't think you can report grown men taking the day off as missing persons!"

"You can if it means thousands of pounds down the toilet!" exclaimed Brian loudly. Neil, who was jogging past the phone booth back to the bus, jumped.

"Alright, alright," said DI MacGregor hastily. "No need to worry, we'll have our best men on it. Where are you now?"

"Er . . . ." said Brian. "Somewhere between Dundee and Glasgow."

As he and DI MacGregor tried to figure out where exactly Brian was, Mal raced back across the windy parking lot to the bus.

He shoved open the bus's door and jumped in.

"Hello, Mal," said George, not bothering to look up from his hand of cards. "How's the search going?"

"I dunno," replied Mal, running a hand through his hair. "Brian's still on the phone with the police."

"Something about a toilet," added Neil distractedly. He was sitting near the back of the bus, pouring over a road map of Scotland with a thick pencil.

Ringo frowned. "What do toilets have to do with anything?"

Brian pulled open the bus door and stepped in. "I have a plan," he announced. Mal quickly got out of the way, sitting down in the nearest seat.

"If it involves toilets, I'm out," said George emphatically. "Last time we had a plan involving toilets, it was John's idea. I'm not going through that again."

Brian stared at George. "Why would it have anything to do with toilets?"

"Neil said it did," said Ringo accusatively.

"Hmm?" asked Neil, looking up from the map.

"_Anyway_," said Brian pointedly. "The Glasgow police have been alerted to the situation and are acting accordingly. They'll be looking for John and Paul, and communicating with other police departments to aid in the search. However, we have to help them by coming up with a valid cover story for John and Paul's absence."

"Why do we need a cover story?" Ringo interrupted.

"Because," sighed Brian, "If your fans found out that you are at all untrustworthy, they would stop being fans rather quickly."

"Oi! George and I aren't untrustworthy!" complained Ringo.

George snickered.

"I was thinking that we would say Paul has suddenly become ill," said Brian. "And John has stayed with him in the hospital."

"Sounds good," replied Mal. Neil took a moment to nod before returning to his map.

"Right, let's go to Glasgow, then!" suggested George.

"First, Ringo, will you run in and give the gas station owner this phone number?" requested Brian, holding out a piece of paper to the drummer. "It's my secretary's number. Tell the woman behind the counter that if she finds out anything more about John and Paul's disappearance, she should call this number."

Ringo nodded in approval. He got up, took the piece of paper from Brian, and ran out into the cold. He raced into the gas station and handed the paper to the woman behind the counter.

Ringo took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and said very quickly, "This is my secretary's number, call her – wait, no – if she finds out anything more about John and Paul's disappearance, she should call this number. Wait, that's not right – if _you _find out anything more about John and Paul's disappearance, _you _should call this number. And it's Brian's secretary, not mine. I don't have a secretary."

The woman blinked.

"Ta!" said Ringo. He ran back out of the gas station and into the bus. "Ready to go, everybody?"

"I suppose we haven't got much choice," said Brian grimly.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Your last act of the year could be to leave me a review! Well, maybe not. But still, it could be! Make someone happy before the new year begins ;0)**


	5. Chapter V

**No, I don't have the Beatles locked in my tiny closet, fed only on soup and bread. But . . . er . . . thanks for asking? Also, I don't own "Accentuate the Positive."**

**A/N: Back to the Nerk Twins! Thanks so much to all my reviewers - FanFiction: omgringo, Macca's Little Teddy Bear, and the Mysterious Guest (the latter of whom really should get an account!); WattPad: Macca40, InmylifeIloveLennon, and Master of Fire. Thanks y'all!**

* * *

><p>"So, what now?" asked John, turning from the darkening green and brown hills to his travelling companion.<p>

Paul shrugged. "What time is it?"

John squinted at his watch. "Eight o'clock." He looked back up at the road.

Paul guided the car around a sharp curve around a hill. He and John were startled to see that the road was no longer desolate; in fact, they appeared to be in a tiny village. About twenty stone buildings were jammed right next to each other on either side of the road.

Paul slowed down the Ford Anglia. He and John peered out the windows.

"This is a nice little village, isn't it?" asked Paul.

"'Ey, look! It's a pub!" exclaimed John, pointing to his left. Paul twisted in his seat to see the building John was pointing at. Sure enough, it was a pub: a wooden sign swinging slightly in the breeze above the door declared that it was "McIntyre's." Cozy yellow light poured out its latticed windows and pooled on the paving stones below, brightening the chilly October evening.

"Let's just drive through the town and park somewhere," suggested Paul. "Then we can walk back."

John grinned. "Sounds perfect, Macca."

They cruised down the rest of the narrow street and soon emerged into the empty countryside beyond the town.

Paul pulled the Ford Anglia over onto a patch of grass a few meters past the last buildings of the village. He and John leapt out of the car and strolled back into the town. The cold wind plucked at their suits and mussed their hair.

"Wonder what Brian's doing right now," mused Paul as he held open the dark, wooden door to the pub for John.

"Probably buying a toupee to make up for all the hair he's torn out," replied John with a straight face.

Paul smirked, following John into the warm pub. The two Beatles were enveloped in the comfortable, smoky atmosphere and hubbub of conversation.

John led the way to the bar. Paul looked around at the dark wood paneling, steamy windows and creamy plaster ceiling.

"I'd like a pint of whatever's best," requested John, leaning onto the bar.

The barman, a well-fed, bearded man in his late sixties or early seventies, nodded. "And you?" he asked Paul.

"Same for me," replied Paul, turning to look at the older man.

John and Paul both sat down at the bar. The barman grabbed a couple of glasses and filled them with dark beer from the tap. He slid them across the bar to the two Beatles.

After they finished their drinks, the barman returned from the opposite end of the bar, where he'd been talking to a couple of regulars.

"Where're you from, then?" asked the barman.

"Liverpool," replied Paul.

"D'you want another drink?" inquired the older man.

"Yes, please," requested John eagerly, sliding his empty glass back across the bar.

"No thanks, I'm driving," said Paul.

* * *

><p>One hour later:<p>

Paul sat at the upright piano in the back corner of the cozy pub, happily hammering away at the latest pub standard. The rest of the patrons had gathered around the Beatle, clutching their pints and singing along drunkenly. Paul led them through the chorus of "Knees Up, Mother Brown," grinning happily. John was leaning on the piano, a beer in hand.

Paul played a rather odd chord to end the song.

"Let me buy this man a drink!" slurred one of the patrons nearest the piano, straightening his tweed vest and flat cap.

A beer was handed through the crowd to Paul to sit beside several empty glasses on top of the piano.

"I should really be going now," said Paul, attempting to stand up from the worn piano bench.

"No!" yelled the rest of the pub's patrons.

"Are you sure?" asked Paul.

"Yes!" replied the pub.

"Yeth, we'd love to have you play thome mowe!" mocked John with a fake lisp.

"Alright, fine," said Paul with a grin. "I'll play one more number."

"I've heard that one before," snorted John under his breath as Paul slammed into "Accentuate the Positive."

"You've got to accentuate the positive,

Eliminate the negative,

Latch on to the affirmative,

Don't mess with Mister In-Between.

You've got to spread joy up to the maximum,

Bring gloom down to the minimum,

Have faith or pandemonium,

Liable to walk upon the scene."

Paul stopped hammering down on the piano to conduct the pub-goers through the chorus:

"To illustrate my last remark,

Jonah in the whale, Noah in the ark,

What did they do,

Just when everything looked so dark?

Man, they said we gotta, accentuate the positive,

Eliminate the negative,

Latch on to the affirmative,

Don't mess with Mister In-Between!"

Paul fell back down into his seat, grinning, and clanged down on the last chord.

"We should probably leave now," suggested John.

Paul nodded and stood up again, saying, "Okay, I'm done now."

"No!" complained the other patrons.

"Nope, really, _hiccup_, I'm really done now," said Paul. "Have a nice night, everybody."

John grabbed Paul's hand and pulled him out through the dense crowd. They were going rather more slowly than John would've liked, because Paul kept stopping to shake people's hands.

Finally, they pushed out of the pub into the frigid night. John shoved his hands into his pockets to keep them warm. Paul seemed unable to walk in a completely straight line, drifting from side to side and humming some of the pub songs from earlier.

However, John didn't even see their car at first in the dark night. Paul was the one who noticed it and meandered across John's path to unlock the door and get in. John blinked fuzzily and shoved on his glasses. They were both drunk, but Paul was _more _drunk; John would need to keep his wits about him.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Reviewsssss . . . they are my ssssusssstenancccce! Feed me . . . .**


	6. Chapter VI

***Shouting* I DON'T OWN THE BEATLES! *whispering* You say you own the Beatles, do ya? Lemme see . . . can I make an offer to ya, bub?**

**A/N: This is one of my personal favourite chapters in this story. Enjoy! Lotsa thanks to my review buddies: On WattPad, InmylifeIloveLennon, Macca40, and MasterofFire; on FanFiction, omgringo, the Mysterious Guest (now known as ThisBirdHasFlownToRhye), and leah9712. A special thank-you to Macca's Little Teddy Bear for reviewing and helping me edit another story I'm working on!**

* * *

><p>Just as John and Paul were stepping into a cozy pub in the Highlands, George and Ringo strolled into a rather bland waiting room in the Glasgow Police Station, closely following Mal, Neil, and Brian.<p>

"Is Scotland Yard here?" Ringo asked George in a hushed voice as the pair of Beatles sat down.

George frowned. "No, it's in London, Ringo."

"Well, that doesn't make any sense," commented Ringo. "Why would Scotland Yard be in London? It should at least be in Edinburgh."

Brian paced over to the reception desk, fretfully twisting a bit of his sleeve between his thumb and forefinger.

"Excuse me?" he asked.

The receptionist, a young woman with large blue eyes and smooth dark hair, looked up from her work. She slowly twirled her pen between her long, pale fingers with red-painted nails.

"Yes?" she asked.

"I've got an appointment with Detective Inspector MacGregor," said Brian.

"Certainly," replied the receptionist. "But only one of you may go in."

Brian opened his mouth to argue, gave up, closed it, and started over: "Neil, would you find a payphone and cancel the concert tonight, please?"

Neil nodded. "Divide and conquer, eh?" he mused as he got up and left the room.

"Mal, look after the boys," ordered Brian before straightening his jacket and stepping into Detective Inspector MacGregor's office.

George snickered. "I can't wait to hear what John and Paul have to say when they get back."

"Probably nothing," replied Ringo. "They'll be too busy dodging Brian."

"Too bad we don't get to have any of the fun," said George, staring pointedly at Ringo. Ringo's eyes widened.

"Hey, Mal," continued George, turning to the roadie.

Mal turned to look at George. "Yeah? What's up?"

George looked around conspiratorially and leaned toward Mal, lowering his voice to a whisper. Ringo shifted over a seat to be able to hear.

"That receptionist's watching you," murmured George.

Mal frowned and looked up at the receptionist. Her wide blue eyes were looking in his general direction.

"Isn't it more likely she's looking at you and Ringo?" inquired Mal in a low voice. "I mean, you're the Beatles!"

George shrugged. "I'm just telling you what I see."

Ringo looked from the receptionist to Mal. "Yeah, she think's your sexy!" he said.

George put a finger to his lips and glared at Ringo before turning back to Mal. "You should go up and say hello."

"But what if you're wrong?" asked Mal.

"You might miss a once in a lifetime opportunity, Mal!" coaxed Ringo.

"Go on, look at her!" whispered George.

Mal turned away from George to look at the receptionist. Behind the roadie's back, George blew her a kiss. She returned with a slight puckering of her bright red lips.

Mal whipped his head back around to stare at George. Ringo's mouth twitched as he valiantly attempted not to smile.

"Told you," murmured George. "Now go over there!"

Mal took a deep breath and straightened his posture before standing up. He put on a smile and strode over to the receptionist.

The receptionist raised one eyebrow as he rested an elbow casually on her desk. She peered under Mal's arm just in time to see George grab Ringo's wrist and yank the drummer out the door after him. It fell shut behind the two Beatles with a loud slam.

Mal turned to face an empty waiting room. "George? Ringo?"

George and Ringo raced down the beige-carpeted hallway with a high-five.

"We have to get out of the hallway! It's too exposed, he'll see us!" exclaimed Ringo.

"In here!" replied George, throwing open a random door and dragging Ringo in after him.

Neither noticed the small piece of paper taped to the door, which read, "Self-defense seminar."

The two Beatles found themselves in a rather large auditorium filled with mostly mousy-haired, quivering, middle-aged women. On the stage opposite the door stood a blustering man with a mustard-coloured military uniform and an impressive grey moustache. George and Ringo slipped into a pair of fold-up chairs near the back.

The man was shouting at his audience, spit flying out of his mouth past his moustache. "Always be aware, always be PREPARED!" he yelled, slamming his fist down on his podium. Several women in the audience gasped apprehensively.

"What do we do if we aren't prepared?" asked Ringo curiously.

"But . . . wha – I never! Insolence!" sputtered the man.

"That your answer?" asked George nonchalantly, kicking up his feet on the back of the empty chair in front of his.

"You're missing the point, my dear boy! The point is that you're _always_ prepared!" the man shouted.

Ringo frowned. "But what if you aren't?"

"Out!" yelled the man furiously, his large moustache trembling. "Get these hooligans out of here!"

George reluctantly put down his feet. "Fine, we're going. Keep your pants on, Colonel."

Ringo and George stood up and strolled out of the room. The women behind them cringed as the man continued to yell.

Ringo opened the door and, with George right on his tail, walked straight into someone. He craned his neck up to see Mal glaring down at him.

"Not you two, too!" exclaimed Mal.

"So _this _is what happens when you aren't prepared," mused Ringo.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: *ring ring ring* Please, leave a review or two! Help feed the writer, starving for praise as she is! *straightens Santa costume* *ring ring ring***


	7. Chapter VII

**Being a ninja is not a 24-hour occupation. How else do you think they amass such world-famous stamp collections? Whether I'm a ninja or not, I don't collect human beings - including the Beatles!**

**A/N: My posting is going to be a lot less frequent in the next few weeks, but I'll stay on track as much as I can! Thanks to my reviewers: on WattPad - Macca40, InmylifeIloveLennon, MasterofFire, and cityofstarlight. on FanFiction - ThisBirdHasFlownToRhye, leah9712, The Beatles Babydoll22, Macca's Little Teddy Bear, and omgringo. I also had my first reviewers on Archive of Our Own, which made me dance a happy jig for a second before realizing that I don't know how to jig. Several planets-full of thanks to McLennonLuv (who was the very first :0), Peyton, and Emma (who followed in quick succession)! I think Emma's is the longest review I've ever gotten :0)**

* * *

><p>A silvery-blue Ford Anglia barreled down the narrow Scottish road in the wrong lane, its yellow headlamps illuminating the road before it. The velvety sky, now completely black, was spangled with small, bright stars, and the grass below was equally dark.<p>

Another car zoomed around a curve toward the Ford Anglia, which swerved abruptly and narrowly missed a head-on collision.

Inside the Ford Anglia, Paul McCartney burst out laughing. "This is great, man!" he slurred, turning to look at John. "No wonder you drive so crazily!"

"You're drunk, Macca," replied John, gently taking hold of the steering wheel and guiding the car around a curve.

Paul slapped John's hands away and careened around the next bend, barely avoiding skidding off the road entirely.

"'M not tha' drunk," argued Paul, hiccupping.

"I don't believe it," mused John, taking a moment to stare up at the sky. "Not only are you drunk, but you're drunker than I am!"

Paul laughed again.

John sighed. "I guess it's my responsibility to tell you to pull over, then. Go on."

Reluctantly, Paul yanked the steering wheel to the right. The Ford Anglia swerved off the road with a loud screech in protest of this rough treatment.

"Should we sleep in the car, then?" inquired Paul.

John nodded. "You go get the comic books so we have something to do."

Paul got out of the car and stumbled to the trunk. John looked down at his hands and blinked. _Cool, I didn't know I had four of those! Wait, I didn't have four hands at the bar. Otherwise I would've drunk more. I'll have to ask Macca later._

Paul collapsed into the backseat of the car with a grin. He tossed John a comic book and a flashlight. John utterly failed to catch them, despite having four hands, and retrieved them from the driver's seat.

"Say, when did I get four hands, Macca?" asked John, holding up his hands for Paul to see.

Paul frowned. "I only see three."

John stuck out his tongue at his friend. "Spoilsport."

"I'm reading," pointed out Paul, holding up his comic book in front of his face.

John held up his flashlight to his comic, but the shapes on the pages wouldn't resolve themselves into words and drawings. Instead, they floated across his vision like dead leaves in a stream. John let his head sink onto his chest and his eyes droop shut.

In the back, Paul looked up, mildly amused to hear his friend snoring already. He blinked happily at the light from John's flashlight.

"Wanna be friends?" he asked the flashlight as his head drooped onto his chest.

"I don't want to go to Yorkshire," replied the flashlight. It and John proceeded to do the tango across the Hamburg club and out the door.

Paul frowned. "All good friends go to Yorkshire!"

"I want to go to Yorkshire!" complained Ringo from his seat on the throne next to the bar. "But I can't."

"Good lad!" approved Paul. "Why not?"

Ringo laughed and turned into a lizard.

"Not very good manners," sniffed Paul. "Oh, hi, Elvis."

Elvis beckoned Paul across the dark room to a door. "Let's go on the roller coaster!" exclaimed the King happily, clutching his binoculars. "We can go stargazing!"

Paul agreed, but reluctantly, because he would rather go to Mars than stargaze. However, he found that he rather liked Elvis's roller coaster buddy, a young Victorian gentleman with weather-beaten hiking boots.

By the time Paul awoke in the morning, he couldn't remember who Elvis's roller coaster buddy was. Five minutes after that, he'd entirely forgotten the whole dream.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: As I said above, Emma left me the longest review I've ever had! Does anybody want to try to top that? (No more than 5 exclamation points in a row, no repeated letters, no utter nonsense a la jabberwocky ;0) If you don't, still leave a review anyroad, I thank everybody :0)**


	8. Chapter VIII

**Under _Custer vs. World _(1877), the famous international court case, no one can own the Beatles. That includes the Beatles themselves, and they must be kept in the dark about this state of affairs. Michael Jackson was secretly coaxed by the World Government into buying the Beatles' songs, just so the famous court case could be kept secret from those to whom it pertains! The World Government is governing the world! Anarchists arise! *Screams and kicks as dragged away by men in white coats***

**A/N: It'll be a little while til my next update, so I hope everybody likes this one! Thanks to everyone who left a review last time, especially all the wonderful people who met my "longest review" challenge: WattPad, InmylifeIloveLennon, Macca40, MasterofFire, and cityofstarlight; FanFiction, Macca's Little Teddy Bear, ThisBirdHasFlownToRhye. Luv ya :0)**

* * *

><p>Mal led the charge out of the limo, the rest of the Beatles' party right behind him. They were instantly mobbed by reporters, who bombarded George and Ringo with questions:<p>

"Why did you cancel your Glasgow concerts?"

"Where are John Lennon and Paul McCartney?"

"Are the Beatles breaking up? Will you cut your hair if they do?"

Mal pushed through the crowd to the hotel doors. George, Ringo, Neil, and Brian hurried to stay in the empty pocket in his wake. The fivesome raced across the hotel lobby and into the nearest elevator, which they rode in silence to the top floor.

Finally, the elevator _ding_ed, and the doors slid open. George and Ringo raced out, only to have their collars grabbed by Brian.

"Oh no, you don't," warned their manager darkly. "I'm not having all four of you run off."

"We just wanted to go to the hotel room," groaned Ringo. "Come off it, you're not going to punish us for John and Paul running away, are you?"

Brian chuckled humourlessly. "You can blame them, not me."

"They've really got you worried, haven't they?" snickered George as they strode down the hallway to their suite.

"Do you think this is _funny_, George?" asked Brian, a slight trace of insanity hovering on his emphasis. George wisely chose to shut up. Brian unlocked their suite door and held it open for George, Ringo, Neil, and Mal, who all collapsed into the chairs of the suite living room. Brian closed the door behind them.

Ringo stood up again. "Does anyone want to go out to a club or something?"

Mal and Neil both shook their heads. "I'm knackered," explained Neil.

"I'll go," answered George.

"You're not going anywhere," replied Brian. "As I said earlier, I've already lost two of you."

George made a face at Brian. Crestfallen, Ringo fell back into his seat.

"This isn't fair!" complained the drummer.

"Fair or not, it's my policy," answered Brian, flicking some imaginary dust off his sleeve.

Silence fell.

"Let's go to our room," said George venomously. "Help yourself to the telly, Warden Epstein."

The guitarist led Ringo out of the living room. George flung open the door to their bedroom and marched in, slamming it behind Ringo.

"I can't believe this!" ranted George. "John and Paul should've known this would be terrible for us! Or maybe they did, and they just didn't care! Well, it isn't funny."

"Not anymore," interjected Ringo. "It was pretty funny until Brian started punishing us."

"That's my point!" yelled George. "John and Paul have been stupid idiots before, but this takes the cake! We're stuck here, virtually prisoners, while they gallivant off around Scotland!"

Ringo shook his head. "For shame."

George fell back onto his bed with a sigh.

"What do you want to do?" asked Ringo. "Unless you'd prefer to sulk in silence, that is."

George shrugged.

Ringo turned on the radio on the bedside table and fiddled with its dials. He stopped when he heard his own name.

" . . . and Ringo Starr," crackled the voice. "The famous band seems to be missing its two leaders, John Lennon and Paul McCartney. No one knows where they are or what's happened to them. Some speculate that the two famous Liverpudlians have fled to Australia to escape the law; others think that they've already been arrested. Yet more people are convinced that Lennon and McCartney have left showbiz to farm carrots. Here with me tonight is –"

"Turn that thing off," groaned George. Ringo complied reluctantly.

"D'you want to play cards or something?" inquired the drummer.

George sat up and pulled his knees up to his chest. "Sure."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I don't mind birdseed (it might turn me into Spiderman :0P), but I'd REALLY love a review! Ta!**


	9. Chapter IX

**I . . . dunot . . . owne . . . ze Beatles! Ying tong yiddle I po! *pauses for audience applause***

**A/N: This chapter is when John and Paul's adventures really start to get quirky and fun :0) This one's another of my favourites! Lots of gratitude to my wonderful reviewers - FanFiction: Macca's Little Teddy Bear, leah9712, and ThisBirdHasFlownToRhye; WattPad: Macca40, cityofstarlight, and ilovethe60sand70s; Archive of Our Own (so happy to put this one in!): Peyton and McLennonLuv. Thanks y'all ;0)**

* * *

><p>Beams of bright morning sunlight pierced through the frost on the windows of the shimmering blue Ford Anglia. It collapsed into the car through the glass and fell onto John Lennon's face. The guitarist started awake, his glasses flying down to the farthest extremity of his nose and his comic book fluttering to the floor. The flashlight on his chest rolled off onto the seat with a muffled <em>thump<em>.

John bent forward to pick up the comic book, squinting against the bright light and rubbing the crick in his neck.

"Mmmggfffump," groaned Paul in the backseat.

"Welcome to the land of the living," intoned John, tossing his comic book carelessly over his shoulder. It landed on Paul's knees.

"My _head_ . . . ." moaned Paul, clutching the offending part of his anatomy with both hands.

"Oh look, I've burnt out my flashlight," observed John, picking it up and examining it.

"How can you tell with all this _light_ everywhere?" complained Paul. "And stop talking so loudly!"

John tossed the flashlight over his shoulder. It landed on the floor next to Paul's head. Paul yelped at the sudden noise.

"What was that for?" he asked.

"You feel up to driving, or should I take us the next leg of the journey?" inquired John innocently.

"NO!" exclaimed Paul vehemently. "I'll drive! Just . . . let's keep our eyes peeled for a place where I can get a cuppa, okay?"

* * *

><p>"Does that look like a rest stop?" asked John. The Ford Anglia continued to whisk through the brown and green Highlands, leaving the cold breeze in tatters in its wake.<p>

Paul took a second to look away from the wheel to where John was pointing. They zoomed past the small, stone building.

Paul wheeled the silver-blue car around and drove back. "Could be."

He slowed down the Ford Anglia as it pulled off the road, onto the otherwise deserted, white gravel parking lot in front of the grey stone building. A wooden sign, carved with a weather-beaten, painted picture of plaid bagpipes, creaked above the door. The structure's few windows were small and high-set, just beneath the edges of the thatched roof.

Paul and John leapt out of the Ford Anglia and strode across the parking lot to the wooden door. The wind had subsided somewhat since the previous day, but it still plucked tenaciously at their clothes and hair. Their Beatle boots crunched down the gravel beneath them.

John yanked open the door and held it open for Paul. Paul hurried over the worn, stone threshold into the dark, warm cavern beyond.

Paul blinked, trying to adjust to the lack of light, as John followed him. The darkness reluctantly billowed back into the corners of the single room, revealing it to be a tiny museum of sorts. Bagpipes of all shapes and sizes sat in glass and wood cases throughout the room, on display for whatever visitor should chance upon the place. Yet more of the Scottish instruments rested on wooden stands mixed in with the glass cases. A little old man in a kilt sat behind the desk to Paul's left, snoring softly and unobtrusively.

"Well, definitely not a café," observed Paul quietly.

"It's a bagpipe museum!" exclaimed John. "George and Ringo are never gonna believe us."

"Shh!" Paul complained. "You don't have to shout!"

"Terribly sorry!" yelled John at the top of his lungs. Paul clapped his hands over his ears and grimaced. The old man behind the desk continued to sleep peacefully.

John stuck out his tongue at Paul before wandering off to examine the bagpipes. Seeing nothing better to do, Paul followed him, stopping in front of the first case to read the brass placard beneath the large instrument.

"That's interesting," he mused. He raised his voice, calling out to John, "This maker made military instruments before he started making bagpipes. I wonder if there were ever military bagpipes!"

John turned from examining the framed, sepia photographs of bagpipes that were nailed up along one of the stone walls. "Mm," he replied.

Paul slowly strolled over to the next exhibit. "Did you know that bagpipes were banned for a while when the English took over Scotland? They were deemed 'instruments of war.' So I guess there were military bagpipes!" he informed John.

John poked one of the bagpipes exposed on a wooden stand. "It's all clothy," he answered Paul.

Paul wandered over to the next case. "So there are four parts to a bagpipe: the air supply, the bag, the chanter, and a drone," he read off the placard. "Though the drone's not technically necessary," he added.

"You're droning an awful lot," commented John snidely, wiggling the blow pipe of another exposed instrument.

Paul ignored him, instead continuing to read from the latest placard, "Did you know that the Romans actually brought bagpipes to the British Isles?"

"This thing's all knobby," replied John, running his palm down the drones of a particularly large bagpipe in the back corner.

"Huh, that's interesting," muttered Paul. He raised his voice again. "Hey John, guess what?"

"Pig butt," replied John, rapping on the glass of one of the glass cases. "Anybody home?" he inquired of the bagpipe inside in a falsetto.

"Bagpipes aren't just in Britain, they're all over Europe and the Middle East," Paul summarized the placard. "And some of them are really weird. Look at this one from Bulgaria!"

"If I do this, what do you think will happen?" John asked Paul, miming thrusting the blow pipe of the nearest bagpipe harshly into its bag.

"Time to go," muttered Paul, grabbing John's wrist and dragging him away from the bagpipes. John wrenched his arm out of Paul's grasp and skipped to the door, flinging it open to reveal the startlingly bright sunlight outside.

Paul paused by the desk, where the old man remained in his slumber. Paul cleared his throat, but the old man continued to snore.

"Er . . . thanks," said Paul tentatively. The old man's head rolled from one shoulder to the other.

Paul delved into his pocket and pulled out a creased blue £5 note. He folded it once down the middle and carefully set it on the old man's dark, wooden desk. Then, Paul followed John out into the bright sunlight.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Walking along the road with a copy of the _Financial Times_, you are startled to see an article, the title of which begins, "In Desperate Need Of." You eat some of your chips to see the rest of the title, which is revealed to be "In Desperate Need Of Reviews." You eat a bit of the fish to see the article, but it's too grease stained for you to make out. Ah well, I think you get the gist!**


	10. Chapter X

**If any of you believe that I own the Beatles, you'd better correct that assumption quickly. If you don't, I've been told that the Secret International Police (SIP) will apprehend you and subject you to the worst torture known to mankind: locked in an elevator with Barry Manilow playing in the background nonstop.**

**A/N: Finally, I'm back! Thanks so much to my reviewers - FanFiction: Macca's Little Teddy Bear and ThisBirdHasFlownToRhye; WattPad: Macca40, cityofstarlight, and MasterofFire; Archive of Our Own: McLennonLuv and Trying to Think of a Funny Name! Also, thanks to those of you who read and/or reviewed my silly WattPad exclusive "Old Habits Die Hard" :0)**

* * *

><p>It was far from bright when Brian woke up George and Ringo earlier that morning. In fact, the bedroom was pitch-black.<p>

"Time to get up, boys," muttered Brian, shaking George's shoulder roughly.

George groaned, "Why?"

Brian moved on to Ringo. "Rise and shine. We've got an emergency press conference in the hotel lobby in ten minutes, and you have to get dressed before then!"

Ringo sat up, his mop top sticking up in the back. "Wha?"

"Hurry!" urged Brian. He leaned over to the bedside table between George and Ringo and turned on the light.

Both Beatles moaned in protest. George hid under the covers and Ringo's hands flew up in front of his eyes.

"Put out that light!" grumbled George.

Brian yanked off the guitarist's blanket. "And I'll do that to the sheet, too, if you don't get up."

George and Ringo reluctantly hauled themselves out of their beds, their eyes still gummed half-closed with sleep.

"What're we doing again?" inquired Ringo, pulling a sock onto his right hand.

"A press conference," replied Brian. "And that goes on your foot, Ringo. George! Don't put that in your hair!"

The manager raced over to George and yanked a toothbrush out of the confused guitarist's hand.

"Oh . . . yeah, right," replied George. "It's just early, I guess."

"_Too _early," agreed Ringo, fumbling with the back of the shirt he'd put on wrong-way-round. "Where are the buttons?" he asked no one in particular.

"What do we say to the press again?" wondered George, rubbing his eyes with one hand while trying to scrub his teeth with a comb in the other.

"Paul is ill in the hospital, and John is taking care of him there until he gets better," coached Brian slowly, running a hand through his hair.

Ringo frowned as he finally figured out what was wrong with his backwards shirt. "Oh!"

"Wait, what're we supposed to tell them?" asked George, picking up his pants and staring at them confusedly.

Brian sighed. "Paul is ill and John's with him."

Ringo blinked. "We're ill, and Paul and John are gits," he attempted.

"No no no!" moaned Brian. "_Paul's _ill, and John's with him in the hospital. We don't have anything to do with it."

George looked utterly flummoxed. "Are they going to_ accuse_ us of making ourselves ill so Paul and John can go on vacation to farm carrots?" he asked. "Why would we make ourselves ill so that Paul and John can have all the financial gain?"

The guitarist tapped the side of his nose intelligently and snapped his cufflinks authoritatively onto his collar.

"No!" exclaimed Brian loudly. "Paul made John ill so they could go to the hospital!"

Neil pushed open the bedroom door. "Really? I thought Paul was ill."

"What did I say?" Brian asked him.

"You said carrots made John ill so Paul could take care of him at the carrot farm," replied Ringo sensibly, taking a break from trying to figure out why there seemed to be an extra button on his shirt.

"Three minutes 'til the press conference," called Mal from the sitting room.

"Just tell them you don't know," said Brian, exasperated. "We can't let them find out what really happened."

* * *

><p>Three minutes later, the youngest and eldest Beatle trooped into the hotel lobby, closely followed by Brian, Neil and Mal. They were met by a tousled-haired, bright-eyed Derek Taylor.<p>

"Hello, Mr. Press Secretary," greeted Ringo. "How's everything going in London?"

"How would he know? He's right here!" replied George.

"Just took the red-eye up here; Brian said it was an emergency," muttered Derek, glancing at his watch. "Right, you two, up on the podium. It's showtime."

Derek, George and Ringo surmounted the "podium," a rather dilapidated stage in a darkened corner of the lobby. A faded poster stuck to the wall next to the stage still advertised "Robert MacCleary and his Fantastic Comedy Bagpipe Trio, 7:30 PM, December 2, 1959." The collection of photographers and reporters rushed over, conglomerating at the base of the stage. They all began to talk at once.

"Quiet, please!" asked Derek firmly. The press settled down, though many reporters raised their hands. Derek pointed to a slender blonde man in the back corner to start off the questioning.

"Where are John Lennon and Paul McCartney?" inquired the handsome young reporter, notepad at the ready.

"I don't know," replied George mechanically. "Do you, Ringo?"

"No, I don't, George," answered Ringo, sounding like a stilted newscaster.

The young reporter frowned and jotted something down in his notepad. He tried to ask a follow-up, but Derek had already called on someone else.

"Are the Beatles breaking up?" inquired a rotund reporter with an impressive walrus moustache.

"I don't know," replied Ringo.

"But we do like your moustache," added George. "You're a regular trend setter."

The reporter fingered his moustache, flummoxed.

Derek called on the next reporter, a rather horsey-faced female reporter right below the edge of the stage.

"Who's keeping you in the dark about all this?" she asked shrilly.

George shrugged. "We don't know."

Derek called on the young blonde reporter again, who was grinning in a manner reminiscent of John Lennon about to pull a prank.

"What are your names?" asked the reporter, still smirking mischievously.

"Haven't the foggiest," replied George, winking at the young man, who grinned back.

"That's funny, I don't remember either," contributed Ringo, scratching his head. "Somebody must've put something in my tea."

"Do you drink tea regularly?" asked George over the sudden uproar of questions from the press.

"I don't kn –" started Ringo, before Brian raced onto the stage.

"_Stop! _STOP!" screamed Brian, adding in a dangerously low voice, "Get off the stage, you two. I'll deal with you later."

Mal and Neil briefly followed Brian onto the stage to escort George and Ringo off.

"Although Paul and John are temporarily indisposed," Brian attempted from the stage, "I promise, as soon as they are both well, Glasgow will have an absolutely free makeup concert!"

Derek glanced in alarm at Brian, the latter of whom didn't seem to notice.

Meanwhile, the roadies led the two remaining Beatles around the periphery of the room, right past the blonde reporter.

"Nice job," whispered the young man, grinning.

"You didn't do too badly yourself," replied George in a hushed voice, grinning back. "Brian'll murder us, though," the lead guitarist added to Ringo as Neil and Mal led them into the elevator.

"I hope he makes it quick," answered Ringo gloomily.

"Do we get the rest of the day off, then?" George asked Neil and Mal. "Unless John and Paul leap up out of the ground, that is."

Neil shook his head. "You've still got a lot of work to do to clear this mess up."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Quick, SIP's coming! And they are armed . . . with FRUIT GALORE! Post a review, before it's too late! Don't condemn yourself to eternal torment in the Barry Manilow elevator!**


	11. Chapter XI

**"Gerta, dear, could you go check that Doctor Lennon 007 doesn't own the Beatles?" the well-dressed nude man asked his grey-haired wife.**

**"Right away, Martin!" she replied, getting up from her psychedelic rocking chair and wandering over to the window. "Does Doctor Lennon 007 own the Beatles?" she screamed into the flowerbox.**

**"Lemme see . . ." replied the ancient Greek philosopher crouched underneath the flowerpot. He pulled out a 1967 London Yellow Pages and a pair of spectacles. "Nope," he concluded.**

***static***

**Announcer: This sketch has been created by the Board of Public Sanity to warn consumers of the dangers of overuse of Monty Python's Cure-All Entertainment.**

**A/N: Grazie mille to all my fab reviewers - FanFiction: leah9712, ThisBirdHasFlownToRhye, and Macca's Little Teddy Bear; WattPad: InmylifeIloveLennon, Macca40, and MasterofFire.**

* * *

><p>"Can you believe that Roman Emperor Nero played the bagpipes?" exclaimed Paul, clutching the steering wheel with one hand and eating crisps from a bag on his lap with the other.<p>

"Yes," replied John flatly, not bothering to look up from his notepad.

Outside the car, the now relatively windless Highlands rushed past in a blur of subtle greens and browns. Grey clouds and shards of blue sky in between hung over the narrow strip of worn concrete.

John and Paul drove in silence for a few seconds. John chewed the end of his pen reflectively, poised to write something more.

"It's interesting that they don't really know when the first bagpipes were introduced to Scotland," mused Paul.

John groaned. "Can you please shut up about bagpipes? You've been talking about them for the past three hours."

Paul continued obliviously, "I mean, concrete evidence of actual bagpipers or pictures of bagpipes limits their origin in Scotland to the 1400s, but that seems late to most scholars. Textual evidence –"

"I can't believe you actually remember all this!" exclaimed John.

"Or is the design more interesting to you?" asked Paul, risking a glance away from the curving road through the hills to glance at his passenger. "'Cause I can tell you that, although it's classified as a double-reed instrument like the oboe, it actually has four reeds, but not all of these –"

"I've just remembered, I have to go shampoo my goldfish," cut in John hastily. "Can you let me out of the car, please?"

They drove on in silence. The road continued to wend. The grass on either side continued to be green and brown.

"What're you doing?" Paul asked John.

"I _was_ writing," replied John pointedly. "Until you started giving me a lecture on bagpipe use in Scotland."

"It's interesting!" defended Paul.

"Look!" exclaimed John.

Paul whipped his head around. As the car came around the latest sharp curve, the two Beatles could suddenly see a large lake to the left of the road. The glassy water was perfectly still, reflecting the snow-capped hills behind it so clearly that, for a second, Paul thought he might have accidentally confused up and down.

"Stop the car!" yelped John, tossing his notebook carelessly into the back seat, to rest upon a mound of discarded candy wrappers, comic books, and the burnt-out flashlights from the previous night.

Paul pulled the silver-blue Ford Anglia carefully off the narrow highway, onto a patch of grass on the edge of the lake. He slowed the car to a stop and put it into park.

"Can I get out now?" complained John, bouncing up and down in his seat.

"Yeah, I'm not stopping you," replied Paul. The pair leapt eagerly out of the car.

"Aye, it's good to stretch me legs again," said Paul in an exaggerated Scottish accent.

John leapt wildly into the cool, clean air. "I'm free!" he yelled. The echoes reverberated off the lake and the hills behind him.

"Let's get out the cameras," suggested Paul, racing around to the back of the car and unlocking the trunk. He rummaged around in the half-empty gas-station bags, eventually pulling out two new Kodak cameras full of unused film.

John raced around to the back of the car, clutching an imaginary hat to his head.

"Here you are," said Paul, handing his friend one of the cameras.

John stared at the camera for a second before whipping it up and taking a picture of Paul.

"Gotcha!" he cackled gleefully. "Your soul is mine forever!" He capered back around the car, blowing a raspberry at the bassist pursuing him.

"You'll pay for that, Lennon!" laughed Paul, raising his camera to take a picture of John.

"The horror!" yelped John, clutching his chest. "You've taken my soul!"

Paul bent over, clutching his knees, silently laughing. John snapped a picture.

"How . . . dare . . . you!" wheezed Paul, trying to pull in some of the crisp, still Highland air. John's laughter reverberated off the lake into the distance like the thin rings left by a waterbug.

Paul whipped up his camera and snapped a picture of the guffawing guitarist.

"Okay, tell you what, let's take pictures of each other," suggested John.

"Right, count of three!" agreed Paul. They both straightened and prepared their cameras.

"One," announced Paul.

"One and a half!" yelled John.

"Two," intoned Paul, placing his finger carefully over the button.

"Thirty seven!" cackled John, doing a little jig.

"Three!" declared Paul. They started taking pictures of each other.

_Click click click click click click_ was, for a few seconds, the only sound. Until both of the cameras refused to click properly.

"I think I'm out of film," said Paul, staring at his camera in consternation.

"So'm I," replied John. "We'll just have to take mind pictures for the rest of the trip."

"Ooh, I like that," said Paul. "Mind pictures . . . sounds like a song, doesn't it?"

"Catch!" ordered John, tossing his camera in Paul's general direction. The bassist caught it with the tips of his fingers.

The pair leapt back into the car. Paul carefully leaned over into the backseat to lay the cameras on the cushioning mound of debris before realizing that something was off.

"John . . ." he growled menacingly.

"What?" inquired John innocently.

"Get out of the driver's seat," enunciated Paul in a low, dangerous voice.

"Where am I supposed to go? You're in the passenger seat," pointed out John, stroking the steering wheel lovingly.

"Get out of the car!" yelped Paul. "I'm not letting you drive!"

Reluctantly, John pushed open the door and pulled himself out of the vehicle. Paul climbed over the gearshift and settled into the driver's seat.

"Now you go around and get in on the other side," ordered Paul, pointing at the seat next to him.

Once John finally collapsed into the passenger seat and slammed the door, Paul grinned.

"Ready to go have some more adventures?" he asked.

"If you insist, Phyllis," replied John in a posh falsetto.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: *deep, booming voice* And now for something entirely different: **

**I was riding a horse yesterday and fell off. I almost got killed! Thank goodness the Walmart greeter saw what happened, came over, and unplugged it.**


	12. Chapter XII

**The last time I said I owned the Beatles, they made me go to court-mandated counselling. Whether I own the Beatles or not, I'm not going through THAT again, so, let it be known that I do not own the Beatles!**

**A/N: Bit of a filler chapter, but it could be worse ;0) Thanks so much for your reviews! FanFiction: Macca's Little Teddy Bear, leah9712, and ThisBirdHasFlownToRhye; WattPad: cityofstarlight, Macca40, MasterofFire, and InmylifeIloveLennon.**

* * *

><p>George, Ringo, Brian, Neil, and Mal all dove out of the BBC's regional broadcasting centre. Coats flapping in a brisk gust of wind, they raced across the pavement and leapt into the limousine waiting for them at the door. Mal slammed the door in the faces of panting fans and reporters alike.<p>

"I'm hungry," complained George as the car rolled into motion. "Can we stop to get some fish 'n' chips or something?"

Brian sighed, staring out the window at the passing bombed-out cathedral. "I'm sorry, we're much too busy, George."

"It's twelve thirty!" moaned Ringo. "We've been up since the sun wasn't."

"Come on, Brian, we're starving!" added George. Mal found himself nodding in agreement and jerked his head to an abrupt stop.

Brian tore his gaze away from the window and glanced at Neil.

Neil shrugged. "It would be nice to have a break and a bit of food."

Brian leaned back in defeat. "If you insist."

Mal twisted around to tell the driver where to pull over. Soon, the two Beatles and their attendant road crew leapt out of the car, their shoes slapping the rough pavement. The five young men bolted into the somewhat grimy fish 'n' chips shop across the road.

Several workingmen looked up from their baskets of chips to stare at the well-dressed newcomers. Conversation slowly sank into nothingness as even the old man behind the counter looked up from the old-fashioned, wrought iron cash register to eye the successful Liverpudlians suspiciously. A family of tourists sitting near the window goggled at the celebrities.

Brian cleared his throat. The sound echoed off the walls of silence.

"Should we seat ourselves?" the manager asked.

The shopkeeper straightened his flat cap contemplatively. "Go ahead."

"Ta!" called Ringo over his shoulder as the Beatles' entourage seated themselves in the booth nearest the back.

The workers hunched over their food, continuing to glare at the interlopers on their communal lunch break. The interlopers themselves shuffled into their booth and wriggled out of their coats. Outside, a car drove past, fragmenting the light on the textured, white plaster ceiling. The teenage daughter of the tourist family leaned over to her mother excitedly and whispered something into the older woman's ear.

"Where's Derek?" Neil broke the silence.

"Wrapping something up back at the BBC," replied Brian. Ringo glanced around the room to see everyone else hanging on their every word.

A waitress ambled down the hall from the kitchen and stopped at the Beatles' table.

"What can I get you?" she asked.

As she took Neil and Mal's orders, George followed Ringo's gaze to see the teenage girl standing up awkwardly from her family's table, being encouraged by her mother. The two Beatles watched the older woman's bright red lipstick shimmer in the low lighting as she laughed, revealing rather crooked white teeth. Her son, still in short pants, blew a raspberry at his sister.

"What would you like?" the waitress asked George. The youngest Beatle didn't reply, still absorbed in people-watching. Ringo tried to kick him under the table, but missed, kicking Brian's ankle instead.

Brian started and stared at Ringo. _What? _mouthed the manager.

Ringo shook his head frantically, mop top fluttering from side to side.

"Er, I'll just have fish and chips, thanks," said George, finally jerking himself back to his senses unaided.

The waitress jotted this down and turned to Ringo.

"Same for me," he said hastily.

She looked over at Brian.

"I'll have –" he started.

"Excuse me?" asked the teenage girl, who'd finally plucked up the courage to approach them. Her accent betrayed her as an American; the autograph book clutched between her soft fingers revealed her as a fan.

"Yeah, sure," sighed George, reaching out for the autograph book. "D'you have a pen, Neil?"

Neil shuffled around in his pockets for a pen. The girl pried the book away from her chest, where she'd been hugging it, and held it out to George. He pulled it out of her hand with one of his own while grabbing Neil's pen with the other, flipped the book to a clean page, and signed it with a quick flourish. He passed the pen and the book to Ringo, who added his own large signature confidently to the page before handing the book back to the girl. She received it with trembling fingers.

"Thank you," she said tentatively.

"No problem," replied Ringo with a warm smile. She blushed and retreated to her table as quickly as she could while maintaining dignity.

The middle-aged local men in overalls continued to glare at the booth in the back corner.

"What would you like?" the waitress prompted Brian.

"I'd like you to make everyone else leave, please," he said firmly.

"I'm sorry, I can't do that," the waitress informed him.

Brian wordlessly removed a large wad of banknotes from his left pocket and held them out to her. Her eyes bulged.

"Right away, sir," she managed to mumble, grabbing the stack of money with chipped nails. She cupped her other hand around her mouth, took a deep breath into her large bosom, and shouted, "Everybody out!"

George and Ringo looked around the shop at the wooden-framed paintings of steamships that lined the walls. The two Beatles stared at the bowed pine floor and at the elaborate cash register, assiduously avoiding eye contact with any of the disgruntled patrons currently shuffling out of the shop.

Once the last local worker slammed the door behind him, leaving only the sound of the jangling bell, everyone in the back booth breathed a sigh of relief.

The waitress came back and dumped their fish and chips on the table. Neil, Mal, George, and Ringo tucked in, while Brian pulled out a notebook and jotted something down. The meal continued in silence.

Just as Ringo and Neil were nibbling on their last chips, Brian abruptly stood up and gathered his coat.

"Are we going already?" wondered Ringo around a mouthful of potato.

"I've just remembered, I haven't canceled the Leeds concert tonight," rushed Brian in one breath. "I've got to go find a pay phone and place that call, won't be a moment."

He whisked away from the table and out the door. The bell over the door belatedly signaled his departure.

"I'd better go get the car, then," commented Neil. He slid out of the booth after Brian. "I'll be back in a minute."

He followed the manager out the door. The bell tinkled into silence.

"I think I'll use the loo before we go," Mal informed the Beatles. "Can you let me out, Ringo?"

Ringo obligingly hopped out of the booth, letting Mal squeeze out past him and stroll down the hallway in search of a restroom.

George glanced from the front door to the back hall, an amazed grin slowly spreading across his face. Ringo didn't even bother settling back into the booth.

"Ready?" asked George.

Ringo nodded. "Whenever you are!"

And with that, the rest of the world's most famous pop combo deserted their hard-earned position at the toppermost of the poppermost, racing down the back hall and bursting out the back door into the grey Glasgow streets.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Count Selling: How did it make you feel, when they said you don't own the Beatles?**

** Doctor Lennon 007: Angry. And . . . unloved. How did it feel when your mother gave you a name like "Count Selling?"**

** Count Selling: Powerful. I felt like the perfect meld of . . . capitalist and Dracula.**

** Doctor Lennon 007: How on earth are you a qualified court psychiatrist?**

** Count Selling (frowning): Bribery. And threats. Oh, and there was that incident with the frying pan and the water buffalo . . . .**


	13. Chapter XIII

**I don't own the Beatles. I do, however, own a bottle of dog pheromones. Actually, I don't really care about this disclaimer anyroad, I just wanted to tell you about the dog pheromones.**

**A/N: Firstly, a thank-you to all of you for your incredible patience in waiting for this update! I'm so sorry it took me so long - I was a) busy and b) freaked out about writing this chapter, as its tone is a little different. But I'm back now, baby! Also, ta to all of my wonderful reviewers: FanFiction - Swimmer girl 17, leah9712, ThisBirdHasFlownToRhye, and Macca's Little Teddy Bear; WattPad - InmylifeIloveLennon, Macca40, cityofstarlight, and MasterofFire; Archive of Our Own - Peyton. You guys keep me updating :0)**

* * *

><p>Green and brown and grey bled together in the gravelly, crumbling edge of the road as the ground flew past. John adjusted his glasses and pressed his nose against the cool window, trying to make out an individual pebble or blade of grass, but they blurred together like a Monet, swirling and rushing by in the wind. John's warm breath clouded the glass, a puddle of fog slowly spreading across the glass. John pulled away his nose and drew the body of a stick figure down from the nose-smudge head.<p>

He paused to admire his work, staring through the smudged stick-figure's head at the green-brown grass and the rippling blue water of another loch. Suddenly, a stone structure appeared in the head. For a spit-second, John stared at a snatch of crenellations and moss, before it vanished into a backdrop of brown and purple hills.

John hurriedly wiped away the fog with his sleeve and peered out the window. He found himself mesmerized by a pair of crows wheeling and twisting in the air above the ripples of the windswept lake.

"Is that a castle?" asked Paul, glancing away from the road.

John pressed his cheek against the window. Cold seeped into his face as his eyes roamed over the crumbling battlements and ivy-covered walls of a once-great fortress. The castle's posture may have crumpled as its foundations sank unevenly into the dirt of the peninsula in the lake upon which it stood, but its pride was clearly still intact, hidden perhaps in a rotting chest in the bowels of the structure.

"Looks like it," John informed Paul.

The road curved along the coastline. Paul swept the car around the bend smoothly, like an experienced painter sweeping his first broad brushstroke.

"Let's stop and explore, then!" enthused Paul, pulling the car off the road and through the scraggly green grass. The silvery-blue Ford Anglia ground to a halt in front of the glorious ruin, water sparkling on three sides, ruffled by the wind.

"Haven't got anything better to do," shrugged John, unlocking his door and shoving it open. He pulled himself out of the car and stared up at the decaying three storeys of Gothic arches and huge grey stones. A tiny brown bird fluttered out from one of the windows and twirled through the brisk Highland breeze. The wind scurried through the fortress, clinging to the stones before swirling out to meet the new visitors. It whispered tales of laughter and tears, smiles and veils, before it forgot and flew onward. John smoothed down his tousled hair.

Paul glanced over at John, grinning. "This is great!" The younger Beatle led the charge into the castle, the heels of his Beatle boots tearing up the dust and grass behind him. John followed his friend up the sun-drenched, mossy steps into the shadowy arch beyond.

He blinked rapidly, trying to clear shimmering blue sunspots from his retinas. As they flickered out of his eyes, he stared at the vaulted room around him. Streaks of bright light from pointed windows were thrown across the floor like golden cloaks of the gods, discarded as their wearers tossed them aside.

"I bet this was the dining hall, or the ballroom, or something," said Paul, craning his neck back to stare at the shadowy heights of the high ceiling. John wandered across the flagstones, leaning down to see the stunted weeds clambering up through the cracks. He reached out and ran a hand up the rough stone wall, feeling its bumps and notches, its pores and cracks.

"I've got an idea," said Paul suddenly. "Let's find the way up to the tower."

"What, so you can play Knights of the Round Table?" asked John snidely. He lowered his voice to a gruff, London bellow. "Excellent shot, Lancelot!"

Paul shrugged. "Gives us a goal, at least."

"I'm game," replied John, strolling away from the window. "Should we start with the back room, then?" He pointed at the dim outline of a doorway in the back of the hall.

"Why don't we try this door first?" asked Paul, pointing at a narrow black door to his right.

The two Beatles walked across the room, their shoes echoing against the worn stones. Reaching the doorway, they peered down a windowless spiral staircase leading down. They both swallowed.

"Bit dark, isn't it?" wondered Paul aloud, his voice shooting up a little higher than it normally was. He cleared his throat.

"You can go first," replied John, staring down into the depths, adding hastily, "Just being polite, 'course."

"No point in going down there anyroad, we're trying to go up, remember?" pointed out Paul. "That's just the dungeons or something."

"Yeah, you're right," replied John quickly. "Absolutely no point whatsoever in going down into the dungeons of an abandoned castle."

They both backed away from the door and walked along the wall, away from the entrance.

"This place has obviously been empty for quite a while," mused Paul, running his fingers lightly across the wall. "There isn't any furniture or wooden doors or anything, just stone."

"It must be pretty well built," added John. "I mean, there aren't any gaping holes in the floor."

"This is great, isn't it?" said Paul, gazing around the great hall fondly. "We're in a _castle_! Imagine, there would've been people eating in this room five hundred years ago."

John wrinkled his nose. "Yeah, people who hadn't bathed in years eating undercooked meat with their grimy fingers in this room. Great image, Paul."

"Look, another doorway! How'd we miss this one?" exclaimed Paul, pointing at a faint stream of daylight across the grey flagstones. The bassist raced over to the doorway.

"There's a staircase!" he called back to John. John jogged to catch up with his friend. They stood at the base of the stairs. The stone of each step was worn lower in the middle from countless feet travelling up and down. Another Gothic window let light, air and the caws of the crows float down the staircase.

"Sir Lancelot, I challenge you to a duel," said John pompously, pushing out his chest. "Whoever gets to the top of this staircase first will win the hand of the fair Brunhilde."

Paul extended a hand stiffly for John to shake. John stared at the hand for a second before turning and racing up the stairs. Shocked, Paul followed hot on his heels.

"I win!" shouted John, slapping the window-ledge of the window triumphantly. Golden afternoon sunlight framed his mop top like gold leaf on a medieval painting.

"Not . . . fair!" gasped Paul, slapping John lightly on the arm. "You cheated!"

"Ooh, look at that!" said John, wandering down the hallway and through a doorway. Paul sighed and followed his friend into the room.

"Yeuck," said Paul, wrinkling his nose at the bird droppings coating the floor of this room so completely that the stone floor was invisible.

John carefully tip-toed across the room to look out the narrow slit of a window on the far side of the room.

"There's the highway," he said, leaning into the window a little to see out. The walls were at least two feet thick; no wonder the castle had stood the test of so many lonely centuries. The guitarist watched a station wagon zip past the loch and whiz around the curve and out of sight.

"Can you come back, please?" asked Paul, pinching his nose. "It's revolting in here."

"Spoilsport," grumbled John. He reluctantly pulled himself away from the view of evergreen-blotched hills and carefully squelched back to Paul.

Paul led the way back into the hallway, where John wiped off his shoes on the flagstones. The pair wandered down the hall to the next room.

"This is where Robert the Bruce sleeps," John informed Paul. The guitarist led the way into the room, only to be yanked back into the hallway by Paul.

"That's not safe, John," said Paul worriedly, peering over John's shoulder into the nearly wall-less room. The stones had crumbled away, breaking down over so many seasons of snow, wind, sun, and rain. In their place was a wide, crumbling gap, with a soaring, sweeping view of rippling wavelets and puffy clouds. A narrow band of green hills in the distance was all that separated the water and sky.

"We should probably go back downstairs," worried Paul. "It doesn't seem very safe up here."

"You worry too much," said John, reluctantly strolling back the way they had come.

"Where should we spend the night, then?" asked Paul as they retreated down the stairs. "We can't sleep in the car again, my neck still hurts."

"We could sleep here," mused John. "We haven't looked in that back room yet, it could be nice."

"Sounds fab!" enthused Paul. "If the back room isn't as drafty as the great hall, that is."

John and Paul strode under the great hall's sweeping, dim ceiling to the doorway to the back room.

"Ladies first," said John, dramatically ushering Paul through the doorway. Paul rolled his eyes and stepped through.

"It's like a sitting room," said Paul, looking around. John followed him through.

The room had far more windows than the entrance hall had, but the room itself was much smaller. John wandered across the room to stare out one of the windows at the view of the loch, the sky, and the muted tones of the hills.

"Let's go get the sleeping bags," said Paul. John nodded and followed Paul back through the cavernous hall, down the mossy steps, and across the scraggly grass to the Ford Anglia. As their boots crushed down the dust of centuries that fed the scraggly grass of that day, they glanced at each other and grinned.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I would ask you for dog pheromones, but I already have those. Maybe you could leave me a review instead?**


	14. Chapter XIV

**I don't own the Beatles. Neither do I own Estonia. What, if any, is the connection between these two statements?**

**A/N: I know, I'm gone for ages and then I post two chapters in as many days! What's up with that? Anyroad, some announcements: a) thanks so much to Macca40 for giving me the idea for this chapter back in November! Finally, George and Ringo get to see a bit of adventure, thanks to her :0) b) I've taken some liberties with describing the Glasgow Zoo, as I've never been there and it closed in 2003. Forgive me if I've made any mistakes. c) Thanks so much to everybody who reviewed last chapter: FanFiction - leah9712 and ThisBirdHasFlownToRhye; WattPad - Macca40. d) More notes at the end!**

* * *

><p>"What now?" asked Ringo. He and George were strolling down yet another grey street. Row houses lined one side of the road, and a chain-linked fence kept the unkempt trees on the other side at bay.<p>

George kicked a pebble idly across the pavement. "I dunno. Have fun, I guess. I hope John and Paul are this bored."

"Let's go to the zoo!" exclaimed Ringo.

George looked over at his friend in alarm. "Where did that idea come from?"

Ringo pointed excitedly at a white sign that hung on the fence. "Welcome to Glasgow Zoo Park," it proclaimed in bright red letters. Next to it was a gate, which opened onto a rather gloomy, wide road into the zoo, lined with blockish buildings. A lone vendor morosely tended his peanut stand in the middle of the path.

George shrugged. "Haven't got anything better to do," he commented, unaware that at precisely the same moment John Lennon was saying the exact same thing.

Ringo excitedly grabbed George's hand and pulled the suddenly lethargic guitarist down the road.

"Can we stop and get some peanuts?" asked George.

"Fine," grumbled Ringo. He reluctantly stopped.

"We'll have three bags, please," George asked the vendor. The vendor grinned, showing off his lack of front teeth, and ran a hand through what was left of his wispy grey hair. He scooped peanuts into three red-and-white striped, paper bags and handed them to George. George eagerly grabbed a handful of peanuts and began to eat them.

"That'll be eleven and six," said the vendor through his gapped teeth. George choked on his peanuts.

"That's as much as I paid for fish and chips earlier!" exclaimed George indignantly as soon as he recovered from a small coughing fit.

The vendor held out a hand, calloused palm up.

Ringo fished around in his pocket and pulled out a handful of clinking coins that shimmered dully under the clouds.

"Ten . . . eleven . . . six," he muttered, counting out eleven shillings and sixpence. "There we are!"

The drummer dropped the appropriate amount of money in the vendor's hand, which snapped shut instantly. Ringo led George away.

"I'm always bailing you out, aren't I?" said Ringo, grinning. "And how can you be hungry already?"

"Don't rub it in," groaned George, grabbing another handful of peanuts and chewing them with unnecessary ferocity.

As George and Ringo strolled on through the zoo, they started to see other visitors. A pair of little boys ran past and disappeared into the reptile house, one shouting, "I'll get you! I'll tag you!" An older woman with steel-rimmed, narrow glasses and high heels tottered past, grumbling that her granddaughter could have chosen a less smelly outing. A young couple sat on a bench near the lion enclosure, ignoring the lions completely.

The two Beatles soon found that it was far more entertaining to people watch than to talk about the animals.

"Doesn't she realize that poodle skirts went out of fashion?"

"I don't know about you, but I wouldn't have a picnic outside the tiger enclosure."

"Look, he's got an umbrella. Always good to come prepared, eh?"

"The monkey house!" exclaimed Ringo as they rounded another corner. The drummer bounded into the small building gleefully. George ambled after him.

The pair wandered through the rather dark room, peering into the indoor monkey enclosure. One lithe animal raced across the dirt floor of the room to greet his visitors. It leapt up onto a perch just on the other side of the wire. Ringo made a face at the monkey, sticking out his tongue and crossing his eyes. The monkey copied the man, stretching its mouth as wide open as it could. Ringo laughed.

The only other occupants of the room were a pair of suited men sitting on the bench opposite, each with a newspaper opened widely, obscuring his face.

"I bet it's horrible, being stuck in there your whole life," said Ringo suddenly, sticking a finger through the wires of the enclosure. The monkey gripped his finger tightly between its small hands.

"Yeah," agreed George, peering into the darker depths of the enclosure.

"Hands in the air!" shouted someone behind them in a thick Scottish accent. George and Ringo whipped around; Ringo's monkey friend chattered a warning to his fellows, leaping off his perch and plunging back into the shadowy enclosure.

A tall, muscled policeman glared down at George and Ringo.

"Well, you see –" started George.

"Erp," added Ringo.

The Beatles turned and raced out the back door at top speeds, the policeman hot on their heels.

"STOP!" yelled the policeman as George and Ringo raced past the young couple in front of the lion cage.

"TAKE THAT!" shouted Ringo, grabbing some peanuts from one of George's bags and chucking them over his shoulder at the policeman. The peanuts fell to the ground, missing their mark by at least three meters.

"I'VE COME TO APPREHEND YOU!" bellowed the policeman as he gained on the two famous musicians. George nearly knocked over the older woman in high heels.

"Sorry, sorry!" he apologized over his shoulder.

"I don't wanna die!" moaned Ringo, barreling past the two young boys, who temporarily paused in their game of tag, staring awestruck at the band members.

The policeman snatched at the back of Ringo's collar, barely missing.

"Keep running!" shouted George, tripping over his own feet. The policeman tackled the guitarist and snapped handcuffs around the young man's wrists. Ringo pinwheeled to a stop particularly ungracefully.

"Keep going, you fool!" yelled George.

"I'm not running away alone!" retorted Ringo.

"Mr. McCartney, you're under arrest!" bellowed the policeman in George's ear.

George and Ringo groaned.

* * *

><p>Back in the monkey house, all was silent as before. One of the suited men turned the page of his newspaper; it rustled in the silence. The other coughed.<p>

Mick Jagger suddenly turned to Keith Richards, both still obscured behind their newspapers.

"Were those who I think they were?" the singer asked his bandmate.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I have no idea whether the Rolling Stones were actually in Glasgow in October 1964 (they probably weren't), but I couldn't resist this little scene at the end :0)**

**Please leave reviews to tell me you're still reading, despite my inconsistent posting habits ;0) Ta!**


	15. Chapter XV

**I don't own the Beatles. I actually don't know what this means - all of this has been dictated by the real writer; I'm just the ghost writer/typist! The real writer is (prepare to gasp) . . . JK ROWLING! Just kidding. She told me to write that. (Feel the doubt!)**

**A/N: And yet another chapter! Don't expect this daily update thing to become regular. I've just had time on my hands and a lot of fun coming back to this :0) Ta to all my wonderful reviewers: WattPad - Macca40; FanFiction - ThisBirdHasFlownToRhye and leah9712. Thanks for sticking with this!**

* * *

><p>Smokey clouds formed a drifting haze around the red, dying sun that was sinking into the rippling lake. The water flickered blue and orange, as if for a few precious minutes it had caught on fire. The silhouette of a lone crow danced before the inferno, swooping and soaring, sending its raucous <em>caw<em> echoing across the barren purple hills and through the deep evergreen forests.

John leaned out the pointed Gothic arch of the window. His fingers gripped the crumbling stone and moss as he breathed in the sharp tang of the evening breeze. He craned his neck to look down at the shimmering wavelets gently wearing away at the foundations of the slowly eroding castle, and for a gasp of time he imagined that he was the crow, diving in the thermal currents above the flaming lake.

"I wish we hadn't burnt out the flashlights," complained Paul. Squinting against the glare of the sun, he stuck his head out the other window and turned to look at John. John turned to look at his bandmate, his eyes temporarily obscured by the sunlight reflecting off his glasses. Paul was clutching a comic book in one hand, while the other maintained a firm grip on the rough grey stone of the windowsill.

"Don't be such a downer!" John replied. His voice bounced off the stones of the castle and reverberated through the loch, little ripples of Scouse sending tiny, gleaming silver fish scurrying into the deep blue, frigid depths.

"Come back in, then," said Paul, withdrawing from the sunset into the growing shadows of the castle. John reluctantly copied him, casting one last glance back toward the crow, just in time to see the bird swoop back around the corner of the castle to its high aerie.

"What should we do, if we can't see to read or anything?" asked Paul, settling down into his sleeping bag.

John wandered over to his own sleeping bag, the one closer to the door. "I wonder who lived here before?"

"Before what?" asked Paul, contemplatively delving into a bag of pretzels and fishing around for a handful.

"Before us," replied John, pushing himself as deeply as he could into his sleeping bag.

Paul snorted. "We don't _live_ here, John. Not yet, anyroad."

"Yeah, we do," countered John as Paul munched on another handful of pretzels. "For tonight, we live here."

Paul shrugged. "I guess some sort of nobleman lived here. Maybe a knight or something?"

"And his fair daughter Margaret," added John. "She slept in that room that was all full of bird poo."

Paul threw a pretzel at John. It fell short and rolled into a crack between flagstones.

"You're disgusting sometimes, Lennon, you know that?" said Paul.

"Says the man who still resorts to throwing food," countered John, staring at the window-ledge as the last traces of red sunlight dripped off into the lake.

Paul turned the pretzel bag upside-down and shook it. A tiny puff of salt and crumbs floated to the floor next to him. He crumpled the bag into a ball and threw it across the room, where it landed on top of the discarded comic books in the deep shadows beneath the windows.

"I wonder what they were like," mused John, lacing his fingers behind his head and looking up at the dark ceiling.

"Well, the knight was very noble," started Paul, turning onto his side to look at his songwriting partner.

"In his young days, maybe," John quickly interrupted. "But now he's old, and so fat his horse can't even hold him anymore."

"But his daughter's beautiful," continued Paul. "She's got blonde hair down to here" – he wiggled an arm out of his sleeping bag and pointed to a spot somewhere near his knees – "and she's got the best singing voice for miles around."

"Yeah," agreed John. "She sings out of her bedroom window to the birds every morning while she combs her hair, and all that."

"But her mum's ugly like her dad," contributed Paul. "And she's mean."

"Little does Margaret know that it's not actually her real mum!" added John excitedly. "Her real mum is actually her old nursemaid, who used to be beautiful before she got old."

"Now Margaret's dad wants to marry her off to a handsome knight," suggested Paul. "But he's always away."

"And when he's here, he's a complete jerk," put in John, determined to keep Margaret's suffering up to the maximum. "He eats everything with his fingers and never learned about indoor voices."

Paul snickered. "And the nursemaid's going to try to help Margaret sneak out to marry her true love, a sheep farmer."

"You romantic," scoffed John. "A sheep farmer? He probably wouldn't even have teeth by this point."

"Yeah, 'cause the dad falling in love with a nursemaid is really realistic," said Paul sarcastically.

The wind picked up its pace, whistling through the tiny holes and cracks in the castle walls. The last dust of the sun's rays was blown away, plunging the room into darkness, save the stars that occasionally peeped through the window. John lifted his head, freed his hands, and groped on the cool floor beside his sleeping bag for the last crisp packet.

"Did Margaret get out and marry the sheep farmer?" Paul finally murmured.

John shook his head, turning to squint through the darkness at Paul. "She tried, but her father caught her and the nurse going down the back stairs."

"Did he make her marry the rude knight, then?" inquired Paul.

John slipped off his glasses slowly and deliberately, resting them on the flagstones beside his head. Paul stared at his friend, the starlight glinting off the whites of the bassist's eyes.

"He was furious," whispered John. Paul leaned a little closer, pulling the sleeping bag away from the small of his back. The cold air rushed in, and Paul shivered.

"He screamed at the nurse, letting it slip that she was actually Margaret's mother," said John quietly.

The guitarist paused. Paul waited.

"BANG!" yelled John. Paul jumped as his friend continued, "Margaret's father killed the nurse. He bashed –"

"But what happened to Margaret?" Paul interrupted, snuggling a little deeper into the sleeping bag's warm embrace.

"Her father locked her in her room, saying that if she didn't want to marry the knight, then she would marry no-one," whispered John. "All day and all night Margaret was confined to that stone room, left with only her hair and the birds."

"How did she get out?" breathed Paul.

"She jumped out the window, onto the rocks below," replied John. "But still, on windy nights, some say they can hear her singing as she wanders the halls of the castle in her white nightgown. Her bare feet are so cold they spread frost across the worn flagstones. She's determined to revenge the living, who are happy while she suffered so much. She searches the fortress, ready to grasp the warm throats of the living with her freezing hands, letting the frost spread through their bodies –"

John suddenly stopped talking. Paul breathed heavily, staring at the dark, lumpy form of his friend's sleeping bag. Outside, the black wavelets lapped steadily against the foundation stones of the rotting castle.

"John?" whispered Paul. "Are you okay?"

John burst out laughing raucously. "I totally had you!" he wheezed, clutching his chest. "I can't wait to tell George and Ringo you fell for that!"

Paul flushed, but at least John couldn't see through the veils of shadow between them.

"I was just playing along with you," said Paul loftily.

"Mm-hmm," said John, apparently unconvinced. "Night, Paul."

"Night John," replied Paul.

Barely a minute later, John's snores were sinking into the musicians' sleeping bags and warming the stone walls. But Paul's eyes remained open, fixed on the black doorway to the drafty great hall where a once-noble knight had feasted with his beautiful daughter.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: If you leave a review, I will make cupcakes! No, not cupcakes for you. But I will make cupcakes.**


	16. Chapter XVI

**I bet you wanted to know what I was going to write here, didn't you? Well, I'm not going to tell you! (Hint: It's about me not owning the Beatles) Post what you think I should have said in your review!**

**A/N: Happy Chapter Day! Thanks so much to my reviewers: Archive of Our Own - McLennonLuv; WattPad - Macca40, Marvel_is_best, cityofstarlight, and InmylifeIloveLennon; FanFiction - leah9712, ThisBirdHasFlownToRhye, and Swimmer girl 17. A message for Swimmer girl 17 - Thanks so much for reading this story and "Beatles in a Beetle"! I'm glad you're enjoying them so much, and I hope I updated soon enough for you ;0)**

* * *

><p>Unrelenting fluorescent lights beat down mercilessly on the dirty cream tiles of the cell. Its metal bars glared sternly at its long-haired occupants.<p>

Ringo stood up on tip-toes and smushed his face against the bars, his nose sticking out through one of the gaps.

"If I get right here," he said to George, "I can see the window at the end of the hall."

"Is it an interesting window?" asked George from his seat on the cot in the back. The guitarist was twiddling his thumbs and staring at them intensely.

"Yeah," replied Ringo. "It's dark outside it."

"So you can't see anything outside," filled in George.

Ringo paced morosely away from the cell door and plonked down on the cot next to George.

"How long have we been in here?" asked the drummer.

"Four hours, thirty-nine minutes, and twenty-seven seconds," replied George with a sigh. "Please tell me we aren't starting this again."

"Truth or dare?" asked Ringo, leaning back on the cot to stare up at the drywall ceiling.

George groaned, "Dare, I guess."

"Break us out of here."

"I'm not even going to bother replying to that."

A clock somewhere in the police station ticked in the background. The cot creaked a little as Ringo adjusted to a more comfortable position. A telephone rang shrilly.

"How long have we been in here?" asked Ringo.

"Four hours, forty-one minutes, and fifty-one seconds," replied George. "And I'm not answering that question again."

Ringo pushed himself up from the cot and paced back to the door. He pushed his face against the metal, rather startling the man approaching on the other side.

"Oh, hi, Brian," said Ringo laconically, stepping away from the door.

George leapt up from the cot eagerly to see Brian and the policeman who had arrested them standing on the other side of the door.

"Terribly sorry for the mix-up," the policeman was saying, fishing around in his pocket for the keys to the cell.

"Now I know what it feels like to be a monkey," Ringo informed no-one in particular. Brian looked at him rather strangely.

The policeman found his keys and slid the correct one into the lock. He twisted it, and, with a loud _click_, the door swung open. George and Ringo bounded out.

"What would you be arresting John and Paul for, anyroad?" George asked the policeman over his shoulder as Brian ushered the two Beatles down the hallway and through the bland lobby.

"Anything to get those two back under control," grumbled Brian. "I've been working harder than ever to find them since I found out you two were in jail."

George stared at Brian. "We've been in jail for five hours! How long have you known?"

"Oh, about four," replied Brian smugly as he pulled open the front door. "It was easier to, ah, _delegate_ the job of keeping you locked up."

"That's not fair!" complained Ringo as Brian led the charge to the waiting limousine.

"What's not fair is that I suddenly have to arrange a free Beatles concert in Glasgow!" countered Brian angrily before diving into the car.

"That doesn't sound too bad," replied George, yanking the door shut behind him.

"If it's free, unlimited numbers of people can show up," pointed out Neil, who along with Mal had been waiting in the car. "And you have quite a few rambunctious fans."

"It's a crowd control nightmare," said Mal bluntly, lighting a cigarette.

"I tried explaining that I hadn't meant free in terms of _money_, but Derek said that would be a bad idea," Brian informed them.

"Any more leads on where John and Paul are?" asked George.

Brian shook his head. "We did have one person call the hotline claiming that John and Paul had gone scuba diving in Loch Ness in search of the monster, but it turned out to be a dead end."

_Hoax_, mouthed Mal as Brian looked out the window for a second.

"Well, Scotland is a very big place," Ringo comforted Brian kindly. "I'm sure we'll find them eventually."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: It's decision time! What clever disclaimer should I have used at the beginning of this chapter? I'll pick my favourite suggestion(s) and use them in upcoming chapters!**


	17. Chapter XVII

**Paul is working with Rihanna and Kanye West, so I have renounced all former claims of ownership of the Beatles.**

**A/N: First, we're nearing the end of this story. It's going to be 21 chapters long. However, I do have another long story in the works, called "Murder Most Discreet," which I'll start posting when this story ends. Second, thanks to the as of yet unknown "Guest" for the disclaimer idea :0) Third, thanks so much to all my other reviewers: FanFiction - leah9712, Macca's Little Teddy Bear, Swimmer girl 17, and the aforementioned "Guest"; WattPad - InmylifeIloveLennon, Macca40, Marvel_is_best, MasterofFire, and cityofstarlight.**

* * *

><p>John woke up suddenly. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since he'd fallen asleep. The only indicator of the passage of time was the moonlight now streaming in through the Gothic-arched windows.<p>

John, now wide awake, groped blindly next to his pillow for his glasses. His calloused fingers stroked along the cool flagstone before bumping against the spectacles' smooth, plastic frames. He shoved the glasses onto his face, sat up, and looked around.

_There_. In a small doorway in the corner, which John and Paul hadn't seen earlier, John saw a small, pale flash of movement, like a stray bit of white garment flicking after a person in a hurry. John turned to look at his friend.

"Paul?" he whispered. Nothing happened. Paul continued to breathe deeply, fully immersed in a dream world.

John slid quietly out of his sleeping bag and padded to the doorway, which was arched like the windows. He peered in.

It was not another derelict room as he had supposed, but a staircase – a narrow, steep, spiral stair. John began to ascend.

The steps were worn smooth by countless feet; they curved down in the middle and slanted downward there, where people had stepped the most. There was no handrail, so John clung to the cracks in the stone walls, his fingers sinking into the earthy moss and lichen that grew within.

A couple of times, John slipped and nearly fell, but each time he regained his balance. Finally, silver moonlight began to pour down the stairs, oozing down them like liquid silver.

John hurried up the last half-twist of the tight spiral and clambered up, out onto the top of the tower.

Awestruck, John spun in a circle, trying to take in the whole view, not even bothering to comprehend it. In the east, John looked back across the hills and dark forests he and Paul had driven through and would drive through; he could see the road, a light strip coming from the east and curving back, around the hill opposite the castle, in the direction from which it had come.

A tiny strip of pale yellow light hung over the edges of the hills. More trees and desolate empty spaces stretched on interminably in the south. John couldn't see a single artificial light poking out warmly in the wilderness.

To the west, the full moon hung pregnantly just above the loch, scattering its beams across the water to where John stood. And the lake –

John gasped at the stars. Millions of brilliant pinpricks of light shone up from the perfectly still lake in the north and west. The moon sat, fulsome and beautiful, at the western end of this great spectacle. The hills beyond the lake were a tiny, insignificant shadow, all that separated water from sky.

John tipped his head back, grasping the crumbling stone crenellations for support. The velvety sky, receding into a deep blue in the east, was spangled with innumerable diamonds, bright snatches of light that could have been, at that moment, strewn across the cosmos by some great, otherworldly being. It was enough to convince even John Lennon of a god for one crucial second.

John's grin was so wide he wondered how his face could maintain it. Laughing, he extended his arms to his sides, and spun in a circle, earth and sky blurring into one great, beautiful image of peace.

He was interrupted midway through his spin by a hand on his shoulder. Reluctantly, he tipped his head back down to humanity.

"What the _hell_ were you thinking?" yelled Paul, grasping John's other shoulder and shaking him.

"My God, it's gorgeous," breathed John, gesturing around him at the scene.

"Could've been killed . . . not safe, staircase is a nightmare . . . no self-preservation," stuttered Paul, tripping over his own words in his anger and worry.

"Let's stay and watch the sunrise," said John. "Now we're already up here."

"Okay," replied Paul. "Just promise me never to pull a stunt like this again."

John smiled. "Okay, Macca."

They sat cross-legged on the cool flagstones of the tower and stared at the sky. They were the sole witnesses as the first golden rays peeked out from behind the hills in the east, dazzling away the stars. The moon escaped, into the lake it seemed, as the firey orb in the east subsumed the velvet night that lay before it. And so the sun rose, and a new day began.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: If you could combine elements from all sorts of creatures, what would your ideal farm animal look like? Tell the world in your comment below!**


	18. Chapter XVIII

**I don't own the Beatles, InmylifeIloveLennon does. Oh, wait, sorry, what was that, my insignificant intern? Sorry, news from the front: InmylifeIloveLennon just got out of the I-Just-Learned-I-Don't-Own-The-Beatles Rehabilitation Camp.**

**A/N: Gah, I finally pulled through technical difficulties to bring you this chapter! I can't believe it's already the last solely George, Ringo, et al chapter . . . . But don't worry, you lot have "Murder Most Discreet" to look forward to the second I finish Nerk Twins :0) Thanks to InmylifeIloveLennon and PurlyandGirly for the disclaimer. Thanks so much to all the lovely reviewers, from newcomers to returned friends (hi omgringo :0) to steady stalwarts: FanFiction - omgringo, Macca's Little Teddy Bear, ThisBirdHasFlownToRhye, leah9712, Swimmer girl 17, Naturelover422, and Georgehorse64; WattPad - Macca40, cityofstarlight, PurlyandGirly, Marvel_is_best, NJ2001, and InmylifeIloveLennon**

* * *

><p>Ringo sat up and yawned widely. He glanced around the hotel room lazily, his eyes travelling over the heavy curtains with bright yellow sunlight streaming in around the edges. In the bathroom, he could hear the pitter-patter of the shower, and if he listened carefully he thought he could hear George singing. His gaze meandered over to the alarm clock, which announced it was 11:15.<p>

The drummer yawned again as he slid out of bed and stumped across the stubbly carpet to his slippers. He pulled them on, blinked, yawned again, and wandered toward the door.

He grimaced as an unexpected dampness sank into the sole of his slipper and looked down to see that a puddle of lukewarm water was inching out sluggishly from under the bathroom door across the carpet. Ringo bent down, pulled off the sodden slipper and tossed it across the room. It slapped the bland white wall and fell to the ground with an anticlimactic squelch.

Ringo yawned again and stumbled, one-slippered, out the door into the suite's living room. He squinted against the sudden rush of sunlight.

"Good morning, Ringo!" said Brian pleasantly, putting down his fork. Spread out across the coffee table was what seemed to be the hotel's full room service menu, from bacon to tea.

Neil and Mal waved from the couch, each with a full plate of scrambled eggs.

"Why didn't you wake us up?" Ringo asked, sitting down in the nearest chair and grabbing a plate from the coffee table.

"No point, as you don't need to go anywhere today," answered Neil, swallowing a mouthful of toast. "You're grounded to the suite, unless John and Paul turn up."

"Have you lot been looking for them?" wondered Ringo, helping himself to several pancakes.

"All morning," replied Brian gloomily. "I'm starting to get rather worried about them, to be completely - oh, good morning, George!"

George strolled into the living room in jeans and a blue t-shirt. His damp hair still dripped occasionally onto his shirt, creating an odd pattern of dark splotches on the fabric.

"Morning, everyone," said the guitarist, shaking his head a little and sending water droplets flying across the room. Brian grimaced as he wiped one off his tie, but George continued to talk obliviously. "Good to see you up finally, Rings. Hey Eppy, what's the word on John and Paul?"

"According to the _Glasgow Herald_, they've gone to Norway to give a free concert," replied Mal, clinking his empty mug back down onto the glass coffee table. "But the BBC seems to think they've gone back to Liverpool to try to resume normal lives."

"But we don't know where they are," added Neil. "All we have is a couple of dead ends. We've basically given up" - here Brian tutted impatiently - "and we're just waiting for them to come back."

"We haven't given up, we're simply taking a moment to collect our thoughts," interrupted Brian quickly.

"You'll love this story from the newspaper," said Mal, picking up a discarded newspaper from the couch next to him. He read aloud, "'Yesterday, fans of the pop group 'the Beatles' laid siege to Dundee Hospital in search of their heroes. Not a single policeman guarded the building or its occupants as nearly two thousand teenage girls tore the place apart; however, the fans were unsuccessful - neither hide nor hair of John Lennon and Paul McCartney has been seen since their Dundee concert."

"And listen to this!" said Neil, grabbing the newspaper and yanking it unceremoniously out of Mal's hands. "The _Glasgow Herald _says: "Beatles Ringo Starr and George Harrison are being kept in the dark about their bandmates' disappearance by the group's management. This has led to some speculation that manager Brian Epstein may have been responsible for the disappearance of John Lennon and Paul McCartney. Perhaps it is simply a publicity stunt, or maybe it's something darker. Nathan Smith says that -"

Brian groaned. "Can you please stop reading that? It's giving me a headache."

Neil smirked as he tossed the newspaper onto an empty chair.

"Should we watch a little telly?" asked Mal. Everyone else shrugged, so the roadie leaned over and pushed the button on the small, blocky television in the corner.

Everyone gasped, staring at the fuzzy black and white image, as the newscaster announced, "- appears to be the supposedly ill Paul McCartney, one of the two missing members of the Beatles."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Excuse me, you there? Yes, you! You've won a prize!**

**You have the exclusive offer of leaving a review, right down there . . . yeah, right there, just below the story! Take this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to leave a review on Chapter XVIII of "Escape of the Nerk Twins"!**


End file.
